Noumenon
by silver-footsteps
Summary: Something that can be the object only of a purely intellectual, nonsensuous intuition. A quiet night, a runaway bride, and a very puzzled journalist. Prize for ForsakenKaliska. ItaSaku.


I struggled with this prompt for a long time. When I asked ForsakenKalika for a prompt, she gave me a very cryptic list:

"songs- "pretty" by kidneythieves, "pumped up kicks" by foster the people, and "rev 22:20" by puscifer  
adjectives- superfluous, petite, effervescent, shiny, ambiguous  
phrases or quotes- "this is how the world ends; not with a bang, but with a whimper;" and "if it was good enough to say, its good enough to print"  
Random word: sheisty"

So I've spent over a month coming up with this. I'm not really quite sure what it is either but I had a lot of fun working on it. So, thank you to ForsakenKalika for a great experience and I hope everyone else will enjoy reading this.

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Noumenon

_Noumenon:_

_The object, itself inaccessible to experience, to which a phenomenon is referred for the basis or cause of its sense content._

_Something that can be the object only of a purely intellectual, nonsensuous intuition._

There's a soft tap on my window and I tell myself it's the wind. Closing my eyes again, I turn over in bed, pulling the comforter along with me. It's late, there's a gigantic pile of work teetering dangerously on top of my desk, and I haven't slept properly for nearly a week. It's been such a long time since I've had time to actually brush my teeth and change out of my work clothes before collapsing on the bed.

There's another tap that I try to ignore. But after a few seconds of quiet, there's a gut-wrenching ripping noise and a muffled shriek that makes it impossible for my weary body to pretend to be deaf. Groaning, I stumble out of bed and stagger to the window, half-expecting to see some neighborhood kids fooling around outside. Instead, there's a woman in a white dress running barefoot through the street. Out of the shadows, something darts out and catches the end of her dress, tearing part of the skirt off. But she doesn't shriek for help, she doesn't run up to one of the many apartment buildings lining the streets to bang on the door and ask for help.

All she does is run; like it's the only thing she knows how to do. The shadow slashes at her again and this time, she stumbles and I can see her blood wetting the ragged remains of her dress.

"Holy shit," I spit as I jam my feet into the nearest pair of shoes I can find and hurry out the door. Ignoring the elevator, I run down two flights of stairs and shove past the double doors. She's lying in a crumpled heap, like a silk handkerchief embroidered with a blooming crimson flower. When I approach her, her head jerks up and I can see blood dribbling down the side of her face.

"Human, run away. You're in danger," she says hoarsely and I can see her wincing with the effort it takes for her to hold herself up.

"Human?" I repeat. I'm certain that the blow to the head has left her severely confused. So, ignoring her weak protests, I lift her into my arms. She's surprisingly light and her skin is soft and cold against mine. Her teeth chatter as I pull her close against my chest and slip back into my apartment building. The shadows seem to shift strangely but I convince myself that it's just my eyes adjusting to the darkness. She seems to see it too, however.

"Hurry. It's coming." The urgency filtering through her frail voice is enough to make me take the steps two at a time. Strange warmth spreads across my chest and I'm almost afraid to look down at her. But I do and in the dim light, I can see an ominous stain on the front of my shirt. Her pale eyes flutter shut and I roughly shake her as we reach my apartment on the third floor. I'm forced to set her on her feet for a moment with my arm around her waist so that I can turn the doorknob. But she collapses against me, cold sweat beading across her brow. I manage to pull her into my apartment and help her into a chair before I turn to lock the door. But when I look back at her, her eyes are open again and her hand is motioning for me.

"Salt," she says, pointing a shaking finger at the threshold. I stare at her, seriously wondering if I've brought an insane woman into my home. But when she insists again, I reluctantly grab a salt shaker from the kitchen and pop the cap off before I pour a line of salt right by the door. She reaches out for me so I help her to her feet and she tugs me insistently to the door. Still confused, I open the door for her and a twisting black and purple shape is hovering in the hallway. A horrible, sour stench comes off of it in waves and I resist the urge to vomit right there. But she doesn't seem at all disturbed as she presses her hand against the dark stain on her side. I can see the blood glistening on her palm before she extends her arm and presses her red handprint against my door. The dark thing shrieks horribly but doesn't move.

"I extend my powers of protection upon this home. Be gone," she says in an oddly flat voice. Another ghastly scream flies out from the darkness before it melts into the softer shadows in the hallway and disappears. With a weary sigh, she stumbles back into my arms.

"Thank you, young man. I advise that you lock the door now," the woman orders as I help her into the chair again. At a loss for words, I move to comply but the bloody handprint on my door is already gone. Still, I stand twisting the deadbolt before sliding the chain lock into place. When I turn around, she's still slumped wearily in the chair, her breath coming in harsh, rough pants.

"Let me call you an ambulance," I hear myself say as I grope for my cell phone in the darkness. But she holds her hand up and even though she's shaking, there's undeniable authority behind the action.

"No."

"No?" I repeat, baffled.

"This… is not the end. Do not be afraid," she says with a faint smile. I don't understand what the hell she's saying at all. I look down at the phone that I finally managed to find and then back up at her. Her eyes are closed again, head lolling back. I can see her face pinch with pain each time she inhales and exhales. I look at my phone one last time before I set it back down and instead go to get clean towels and the first aid kit in the medicine cabinet. By the time I return with a basin of warm water, she's already sleeping. So I sit, washing her bleeding bare feet and wrapping them in bandages. I wipe away the crusting blood on her face as best as I can but some of it has dried into her hair so I leave it. The gash on her forehead isn't as bad as I thought it was so I carefully apply antibiotic ointment before placing a large Band-Aid over that.

I flick on the small lamp on the coffee table to try and see the wound on her side better. . Her dress is already in tatters so I don't need to cut it away. But for some reason, the gash is much smaller than expected. The amount of blood staining her clothes doesn't make sense. But I instead focus on dressing the last wound before I step back to get a better look at her.

She's rather pretty, probably a few years younger than me. Her pointy chin, small mouth and heart-shaped face lead me to believe that without the blood, she would be very attractive. At first, I wonder if it's the light from the lamp, but upon closer examination, I see that her hair is actually pink. It's long, falling in soft curls to her waist. She's almost doll-like with her pale, thin limbs and the overall air of delicacy around her.

It feels wrong to leave her sleeping sitting in the dining room chair so I carefully gather her into my arms. She doesn't stir as I transfer her to the sofa. A light sigh leaves her, like she can feel the comfort in her dreams already. I cover her in the thick afghan thrown over the arm of the furniture and she snuggles deeply into the warmth, a childish look of bliss coming over her previously tense expression.

I stand watching her for another minute before I remember just how exhausted I am and climb back into my bed. The covers are already cold and the moonlight shining into the window seems too bright. It takes me a long time to finally fall asleep.

When I open my eyes, I hear the soft patter of rain against the window. I roll onto my back, stretching my arms and legs. The exhaustion that had been weighing my body down for the last week is gone and I feel well-rested. I reach for my alarm clock, guessing that I got around eight hours of sleep. To my surprise, the red numbers read 3:28 AM.

I've been asleep less than 3 hours. Still, my body insists that I wake up so I sit up. A loud yawn rips from my mouth as I lift my arms over my head. Wondering if everything was just some twisted dream, I cautiously walk out of my room and head into the living room where I left her. The sofa is empty and I sigh with relief that it wasn't real. But there's a small noise and when I turn to the left, she's standing at the window, afghan draped around her like a cloak.

"What are you doing?" I inquire and she doesn't respond. After a moment, she turns to me and gestures to the windowsill. As I draw closer, I see that she's found thumbtacks and lined seven of them up in the white wood. I run my finger over the rounded tops as she eyes me intently.

"Do the same for the other windows. This place is unstable," she orders, holding out her cupped palm to me. Half-amused and half-concerned, I accept the tacks and go off to humor her. By the time I return, she's dug candles out of the kitchen drawer and arranged them in the shape of a pentagram.

"Would you light these for me? Fire and I do not always get along," she requests, dropping the box of matches in my hand. She takes a step back, watching me expectantly. So I light the candles and look back at her, wondering what she's trying to do. My unvoiced question is answered when she steps into the center of the star and lifts her right hand into the air.

"Come to me, darlings," she coos and I take a few steps back, reaching for my cell phone. Clearly, I've let a crazy woman into my home. But as I flip my phone open, soft blue light encases her right hand before solidifying into what appears to be a floating blob of water. She brings it close to her face, lightly kissing it. It glows pink before fading back to cerulean again.

"I am going to need you to go back and tell Kiba and the others that mommy is stuck here. Can you do that for me, dearest?" the woman pleads in a silky voice and the liquid **coos** in response.

"Did that thing just talk?" I blurt out, feeling my eyes nearly bug out of my head.

"Then go and make mommy proud," she says before she holds out her palm and the **thing** rolls off and melts into the floor. Dusting her hands off, she turns back to me with a completely nonchalant expression.

"I do not suppose that you have any clothing that I might borrow?"

I look down at the tattered remains of her dress stained with blood. She copies me and her eyebrows lift as she notices the crude bandaging I've done on her side. The corner of her mouth pulls up into a smile as she runs her fingers over it.

"Oh. How thoughtful of you," she remarks as she grabs the edge and peels everything off in one soaked layer. I reach out a hand to stop her but she tosses the bloodied wrappings on the floor and runs her fingertips along the perfectly unblemished skin there.

"Unnecessary but thoughtful nonetheless. Would you mind if I use your bathroom for a bit?" she says in one breath. I'm still staring at the bandages on the floor and then back to smooth side. Unable to find the right words, I silently point in the direction of the bathroom and she nods graciously at me as she walks right past me. After a minute, I hear water running and I come to my senses. I pick up the discarded bandages and toss them in the trash can and on my way there, I see the thick line of salt still on the floor. Just to be sure, I open the door and check the front. The bloody handprint is still missing. The logical part of my brain struggles, trying to make sense of things that clearly do not make sense. It's only after a while of pondering that I remember that she asked for clothes. Rummaging through my dresser, I manage to find a pair of old skinny jeans from high school along with a clean white shirt. Neatly folding them on top of each other, I venture to the bathroom to knock on the door.

"I have some clothes. They might be a little big on you," I say through the door. To my surprise, the door jerks open and she emerges in all her nakedness. Being a healthy man, my eyes should have been drawn immediately to her perfectly full breasts or to the junction of her sleek thighs. Instead, I can't pull my gaze from the intricate black and red tattoo that spirals up from the base of her spine and slashes across her torso before coming to a stop at the base of her neck. The symbols seem to be runes twisted in with blooming crimson roses that glisten as if they were covered in blood. At the very top of her masterpiece, between her shoulder blades is a tiny pair of black wings. The rest of her back is a writhing mass of flowers and symbols that swirl around a fearsome dragon with gleaming blue-black scales and glistening teeth.

"Thank you. These will suffice," she replies without batting an eye. She pulls on scraps of black lace that can scarcely count as undergarments before taking the shirt from me and pulling it on. The dark outline of her bra is still visible underneath and I can still see parts of her tattoo, but it goes down to her knees and that's better than nothing at all. She pauses to eye the pants and then she ignores them completely.

"I think I'm going to need you to explain what the hell's going on… and who the hell you are," I finally say. As she twists her wet hair together, she peers over her shoulder to give me an amused look.

"Hmm… I suppose I owe you at least that," she agrees in a quiet voice. So we sit on the sofa, her curled up at one end and me sitting stiffly on the other.

"We should start with names at least…My name is Itachi," I begin, extending my hand to her. She lifts an eyebrow at me before she clears her throat.

"My father's name is Nicor and my mother is Deumos. I go by many titles, but I believe your kind call me Vepar," she explains in a completely serious voice. I was never much of a mythology nut, but somehow, the names strike a chord with me. I thought it over and then it was my turn to eye her with skepticism.

"Vepar? Isn't that the name of that demon that drowns sailors?"

"Demoness," she corrects with a cluck of her tongue. But a smile lights up her face.

"I am rather surprised that you know so much. You may call me Sakura if you wish. That is what my friends call me," she says with a smile that reflects some amount of nobility. I can't stop staring at her.

"Are you trying to tell me that demons are real and that you're one?" I scoff and she nods solemnly.

"I'm sorry but I'm having trouble believing that," I tell her and she nods again, like that was what she expected.

"Well, whether you believe me or not, that is what I am," she replies with a shrug. I scrutinize her for another moment. Although I find her story hard to believe, it makes her massive tattoo and unbelievable healing a little more plausible. After a moment, I remember the writhing mass of black that appeared at my door the night before.

"And that…. Thing last night?" I ask, pointing to the door. She wrinkles her nose as she glances at the door too.

"That…. Creature… that creature is my fiancée," she replies.

It's completely silent in the room as I look straight at her. And she looks right back at me without the slightest hint of a laugh or even a smile.

"Your fiancée," I repeat, just to make sure I've heard her correctly. She bobs her head.

"Well, that was my fiancée's shade. He sent it to… escort me to the wedding ceremony. As you may have guessed, I was not extremely happy with such an arrangement."

"Did you parents choose him?" I infer and she throws her hands into the air.

"He is beyond vile! He is vulgar and selfish and an awful lover!" she exclaims. I feel my cheeks start to grow warm.

"An awful lover?"

"Well I needed to know what the next few centuries would be like," she explains and I don't even try to understand. Head still spinning from all the information she's bombarding me with, I take a deep breath.

"Wait. I thought you would love a guy who's vile and selfish. Isn't that the way things work in your world?" I demand and her eyes widen. For an instant, she's completely silent. And then she throws her head back and laughs.

"Oh you humans and your strange mythology. Perhaps back in my grandparents' time. But now every young demoness simply wants a man who will satisfy her desires and advance her family's social standing before perhaps giving her one or two offspring," she giggles.

"How romantic," I remark dryly and she smiles at me again.

"But besides his lack of male… competence… I have other reasons for being less than eager to marry him," she continues, her smile fading. She sits up straighter, eyes narrowing with a dangerous sort of intellect. The wet tips of her hair soak the front of her shirt and the black swirls of her tattoo shine brightly through the transparent fabric.

"As of now, there are only a few royal families left with pure demonic heritage. Over time, our blood has become thin, mixing with that of humans such as yourself. Out of these few households, my fiancée's clan holds particular favor in our master's eyes at this time." As she speaks, I try to imagine the hierarchy she's talking about.

"So your parents chose him because of the political gain?" I venture, making sure that I understand what she's saying. She nods approvingly, as if she's surprised that I managed to follow.

"If our families were to join through my marriage, they would undoubtedly combine forces to wipe out the rival nobility. If such a thing were to happen, it would create a power vacuum in the upper echelons of power and war would undoubtedly break out. That is why I have been gathering supporters. There is another much smaller and weaker noble family renowned for its skill in the dark magic. If I can arrange a marriage between my fiancée and the youngest daughter of that family, my house remains unbound and there will be little basis for needless violence," she finishes with a pensive expression.

I don't know what to say.

My entire world has just been flipped upside down and I've just been informed that all of the supposed fairy tales I've learned to disregard might all be true. As if to prove my point, she peels off the bandage on her face to reveal perfectly unharmed skin, like she hadn't been bleeding profusely just hours before. She meets my gaze with a faint smirk.

"I suppose this is a fair amount to take in. Do you have anything else to ask me?" she queries and I take a long moment to think.

"By all standards, you are… a princess?" I ask.

"A duchess," she corrects with a patient smile, like I'm some sort of small child.

We sit at opposite ends of the couch, talking long until the moon has set. By the time I've nearly run out of things to ask her, the sky has lightened from indigo to blue and I can see that her eyes are a sharp shade of viridian.

"Do you have wings?"

She casts a quick look around the room, eyes narrowing as she calculates.

"I do. But I cannot show you or I might ruin your home," she responds. As she speaks, her gaze lands on the line of salt by the door.

"That shade is incapable of entering this place, but I am afraid that you and I are trapped here until help arrives," she adds, almost as an afterthought. She unfolds, rising to her full height to cross the room and stand at the window. Shielding her eyes from the weak beginnings of light, she peers out into the street. The blood stains from the night are already gone, just like the handprint on the door. She has already explained that her blood is strong enough that it is capable of warding off weaker enemies, almost like a dog marking its territory.

"One last thing. Your tattoo?" I hesitantly inquire, wondering if that's some sort of demon taboo to ask. But she doesn't seem insulted as she turns back to me. After glancing down, she unbuttons the shirt to reveal her pale front to me.

"This is not a tattoo. We call this the anti-stigmata. All demons are born with it. It is like the rings inside a tree. As we age and grow more powerful, it spreads. My father's extends up his throat and down to his wrists as well," is her explanation as she walks closer to me, shedding the shirt completely.

"Do you… feel it spread?" I ask, overcome with curiosity. As I watch, one of the thorny vines on her stomach seems to twitch.

"After battles, I can feel it travel. It is painful but a source of pride," she responds with a grim expression. Without thinking, I lift my hand and spread my fingers across the cool skin of her stomach. She doesn't flinch away, simply stands watching me with a curious expression. The black and red markings are smooth but just the tiniest bit raised, almost like old scars.

"Why are you sad, human?" she inquires and my eyes drift up to meet hers.

"I'm… not really sure," I tell her in response. And for some reason, this answer seems to satisfy her. I lower my hand and she picks up my shirt to shrug back on. She looks around my modest apartment once, like she hasn't noticed it before. Curious noises of fascination leave her as she runs her fingers along countertops and hefts things in her hands. She picks up the snow globe on my coffee table and shakes it vigorously. Her eyes light up as she watches the white flakes inside flutter down onto the small cottage and people.

"You seem intelligent. What is your role in this society?" she suddenly wants to know as she sinks onto the sofa right beside me, her thigh pressing against mine. She holds up the snow globe close to her face and watches intently as she shakes again.

"I'm a journalist," I reply, unsure of where she's going with this. She nods without comment

And suddenly, she has a million questions about my "average human life". Everything from what I eat to how I get around and what my friends and family are like. In the middle of her barrage of questions, the blue blob of liquid from before creeps up between the floorboards and drifts up to rest in her palm again.

"They have arrived already? How unusually punctual of them," she remarks as she stands. The candles forming the pentagram have already gone out and she looks over her shoulder at me. I sigh but oblige by re-lighting them and taking a step back. A few unfamiliar words slip out of her mouth and suddenly the room is enveloped in a cool blue light. A blinding flash of light forces me to close my eyes and when I manage to pry them open again, there are three complete strangers standing in my living room.

"You're early," Sakura greets them as she steps out of the circle. They remove the hoods on their dark cloaks and each fall to one knee.

"Rise, please. Any news from the house of Hyuuga?"

The girl in the middle with silky black hair lifts her face, silver irises gleaming. There's a stripe of red running across her eyes like a blindfold.

"My father offers you his full support. And my sister has expressed her willingness to go through with the ceremony," she informs her in a soft voice. But her gaze fixes on me and she freezes, cheeks turning an odd shade of pink.

"Oh come on, Hinata. What kind of succubus are ya? You should be digging your claws into him, not blushing like a virgin!" the man on her left groans as he sits up, turning to her with a look of exasperation. His anti-stigmata coil up his throat like thorny vines and wrap around his cheeks like caressing fingers. When he speaks, he reveals long canines, almost as if he were a wolf.

"Kiba, Hinata, Shino, have you heard from my parents?" Sakura interrupts gently and the trio freezes.

"Gehenna is in an uproar, Sakura. Your parents are meeting with your fiancée as we speak. It seems that they intend to send a full search party," the second man on the right speaks up and a smile curls at her lips. Crossing her arms over her chest, she appraises the three.

"As planned, we will escort you to my family's fortress in Sheol," Hinata says and Sakura nods.

"Wonderful. Then let us depart. We need not endanger the life of this man any longer," Sakura says. She lifts an arm and the nearest window is flung open. The seven thumbtacks wedged into the ledge pop out, scattering across the floor. The three silently climb through, disappearing into the bloody sky. She pops open the buttons of my shirt, shedding it easily before walking over to the window. In one smooth movement, she wriggles through the frame and I hear a rushing noise, like a strong wind is whipping past. When I follow her path to the window, for a moment, I'm engulfed in an unbearable cold.

"Itachi," her voice whispers so I poke my head out the window. A puff of cool air touches my cheek and her face is right in front of mine. But now there are curling black horns growing from her temples and black, feathery wings are sprouting from her shoulder blades. They flutter softly, keeping her aloft. She reaches out for me and I can see her stigmata glowing faintly in the rising sun.

"Thank you, Itachi," Sakura murmurs, her cool fingers spreading across my cheeks. She leans in and her lips lightly touch my forehead. As she exhales, white mist expels from her mouth, even though it's a balmy August morning. She presses her ear against my chest for a moment, listening carefully.

"Good night," she sighs as she lightly pushes me back. Her massive wings flap once and another wave of arctic air swirls around me. I squint against the icy wind and when I can open my eyes again, she's already gone. The only traces of her I can find are the ice crystal s spread across the places on the windowsill that she touched and the discarded bandages that are used but completely pristine, as if blood has never touched them before.

She speaks to me in my dreams. Her cool whispers bombard me every time I close my eyes to rest. Wrapping me up in her downy wings, she coos to me in ancient tongues that have long been forgotten in my world.

So here I sit at my desk. My bed is cold. The world outside is sleeping and the blue glow from my laptop fills my bedroom. As my fingers tap across the keys, I hear a soft tap at my window. My hands pause and I hear the tap again, this time accompanied by a breathy laugh.

"There's salt on your windowsill," I can hear her call out.

And a welcome cold fills the room.

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Thanks for reading!

Reviews are always appreciated. I'm continuing to take prompts for Menagerie so feel free to suggest any prompts in reviews.


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